


A Box Full of Darkness

by tsurai



Series: Teen Wolf tumblr prompts [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Possession, Episode 4.01, Explicit Sexual Content, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Other, Pre-Season/Series 04, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai
Summary: "Someone I loved once gave me/ a box full of darkness./ It took me years to understand/ that this too, was a gift."When the Calaveras don't leave Scott any easy breadcrumbs to follow, Stiles is caught between the possibility of Derek tortured and dying, or a choice that stands the chance of destroying Stiles' life so soon after he got it back.
Relationships: Nogitsune/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Teen Wolf tumblr prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728115
Comments: 20
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> for [this prompt meme](https://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/post/190826099517/mary-oliver-prompts).

The thing about corporating out of some bandages onto that wooden floor… the thing is that no matter what Noshiko and her oni say, no matter that the oni’s hold on him felt like they were scraping claws on the inside of his skull and deemed him free of corruption, Stiles doesn’t feel like a real person. 

He’s got all of his memories, sure. Even the ADHD came through fine. PTSD and nightmares are real winners too.

But there used to be a small scar over the knuckle of his index finger, where Mrs. Peterson’s pomeranian bit him when he was eight. He had to get stitches because it kept spurting blood everytime he twitched his finger. 

There’s no faint line above his eyebrow where Erica bashed him in the face. He has no scars now, except _onore_ , the “self” the oni branded him with.

Stiles is a copy, and he can’t forget it when his own body is a testament to the truth. He traces the kanji when he’s distracted, wondering if the mark is supposed to fade at some point. He doesn’t think it will.

Maybe the oni missed something vital, something still curled around the back of his brain. 

When he finally turns to Google to answer the questions still buzzing around his head like that fucking fly, Stiles finds himself staring at a webpage full of Japanese and reading it as easily as English. He tabs away, checking emails before typing another search term into the browser.

After a while he realizes he’s reading a PDF of the original _Kojiki_ , combing for references to the god of foxes, kitsune, and nogitsune. The old Japanese holy text is already liberally annotated by his own hand. The corner of his screen reads 4:30am and he has to be at school in less than four hours. Stiles sucks in a breath, clenching his hands into fists until they stop shaking.

He slams his laptop shut and faceplants into the bed, packing away this new horrifying revelation and shoving it into a dark corner. 

The visualization helps a little, even if his skull starts to feel scraped out and raw again. 

Stiles tries to forget about it.

He won’t be able to, but he tries.

* * *

_“Stiles,”_ a voice whispers in his dream, and the sad thing is Stiles thinks he’s actually able to tell it’s not real without even counting his fingers. The figment of his own brain speaks into his ear, and Stiles waves it away until it disperses like so much mist.

He knows he’s not possessed. He’s too empty for that voice to be real.

* * *

Then Scott calls them to Derek’s loft. 

“And everything looked fine, his door was locked, nothing out of place, but…” Scott trails off, distressed. Stiles looks around, but everything is just as open and lifeless as ever.

“But what? Did you find something that points to this kidnapping theory?” Stiles finally snaps when Scott doesn’t continue. 

“Of course he didn’t find anything. This place has been professionally cleaned. That cobweb that’s been there since he moved here is gone,” Lydia says, pointing to the corner by the window. Scott squints like his eyesight isn’t perfect, and Stiles can read his frustration with missing cues that only Lydia could deem ‘obvious’. 

“So what, you want Lydia to run her hands over everything in the room to see if someone capped Derek? Seems like just asking for tetanus.”

Scott shoots him a look full of exasperation and Lydia brushes past him, rolling her eyes as she prepares to listen. 

For about five minutes, Stiles has hope they can resolve this quickly.

* * *

He can’t say why he comes to the clinic, his thought process not much beyond _every minute that passes is another Derek may be dying_.

They have nothing. No leads. No new impressions. No one they can really reach out to. Isaac and Argent fucked off to France to run away from their grief, practically gone dark but for the few texts from Isaac over the last weeks. So far they’ve received no reply about their worries for Derek, and if Stiles is honest he’s not sure Argent is up to making all the calls necessary, not with Allison gone.

(And that hurts too because even when he feels unreal he can still remember the sensation of his hands gripping the blade that sank into Scott the same way it must have sunk into Allison and it _hurts_ -)

But he finds himself picking the lock into the vet clinic almost absently, his thoughts focused on fending off that twist of grief threatening to drown him if he lets it. 

Deaton isn’t in, but it’s not like Stiles needs him to get past the mountain ash or whatever other supernatural traps the druid laid. 

(And he feels unreal again because how _can_ he be human after getting puked out of his own body or when he feels like there’s a subtle awareness of his own energy like something buzzing under his skin and reminding Stiles how hollow he is-)

He comes back to awareness while popping open a padlock with steady hands. He curiously lifts the lid off the metal chest and peeks inside.

He slams the lid again, clicks the padlock in place, and runs out of the clinic as fast as his legs can carry him.

* * *

First is the fear. How did Stiles know it was there? Did it put him in a fucking trance- but no, he’d seen the runes all over that chest, so surely Deaton was using that to contain its influence. Surely. But then how did Stiles _know where to find it._

Close on fear’s heels comes anger, because Argent was supposed to take care of it, to make sure it never hurts anyone again-

But that’s too much to ask of a man whose daughter died because of that thing. Because of Stiles. 

He hisses, hitting the wheel with his open palms until they ache and then gripping for all he’s worth.

“Stiles,” his dad says on the other side of the door and Stiles yelps, banging his knee hard into the dashboard. “You okay, kid?” 

Damn it, even his paranoia isn’t good for anything if he didn’t notice his dad walking up to the Jeep. Stiles scrambles to unbuckle and get out. His dad’s raised eyebrows don’t help the embarrassment he feels as they both realize he’s only wearing his pajamas and a pair of sneakers. He didn’t even put on socks. 

“Hey, you haven’t been sleepwalking again, have you?” John asks, his face twisting up with concern. He sets a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles can’t help how he flinches. The next moment he’s being reeled in closer and pulled into another of those hugs – the ones that happen when they’re both thinking about things better left unsaid.

“No, not sleepwalking, I promise,” he mutters, not quite sure how true it is. “There’s just, been a lot going on and…” Stiles mentally flails, casting about for a suitable lie, and John pulls away to look him in the eye again. 

This is the part where Dad asks what’s going on and Stiles comes up with some high school drama, some small werewolf thing, a story about how he had a nightmare and wanted to grab some coffee and didn’t think to change clothes.

But his dad just looks at him, doing his best to be patient without walking on eggshells. Stiles’ next breath hitches on a sob he can’t quite choke down.

“It’s about Derek…”

* * *

It’s easier to convince his dad than Stiles thought it would be, even with their paper-thin conclusions that Derek has been kidnapped. 

His dad files a missing persons report and reaches out along the few contacts he has that haven’t yet burned their bridges with the Hellmouth that is Beacon Hills. In the process they finally reel Peter into things, which is in hindsight a mistake. He has nothing helpful to add but snarky comments and an intense fixation on watching Malia. 

Stiles keeps an eye on them, and Malia may as well be bristling at the attention. He carefully keeps himself between them, even though she probably won’t hesitate to go through him if Peter says something to piss her off enough.

It should be a red flag, how little that prospect frightens him. Instead Stiles is forced to push it aside for that clock ticking down somewhere in the back of his head, telling him that Derek is running out of time. He’d think it was just anxiety giving him a panic-inducing imaginary countdown, but… somehow Stiles is just sure. 

Nothing good will happen to Derek if they don’t find him in time.

* * *

No leads, no leads and the clock is ticking. Argent still won’t get back to them. 

He keeps going back to the loft, even though Lydia got nothing more than blood, gunshots, and a woman’s voice. Nothing helpful, and Stiles keeps getting stuck back on the floor shining with a faint lemon-scent, cleaned by unknown hands. They only have assurance that Derek didn’t die here, despite probably being shot. 

Even Kira’s mother has little to say in the matter. It doesn’t surprise him – celestial kitsune have never been very useful aside from summoning oni and some flashy cleansing powers... and if that’s not a thought Stiles ever would have had before, he shakes his head and ignores it. 

The way he’s trying to ignore the knowledge that there is someone – something – that could touch the featureless concrete and _know_ , because it deals in pain and suffering and feeds on it even years later. 

It’s Peter who finds him there, still standing in the middle of the floor an hour later. The sound of his name breaks Stiles out of his thought process. Peter grabs his arm when he tries to brush past him and Stiles flinches.

He’s immediately let go, and can’t quite process what’s happening for a moment when Peter takes a step away from him. Bewildered, Stiles finally meets his eyes.

“Are you alright?” 

It’s the last thing he expects to hear from Peter and he blinks hard. “What- I…” he stops, straightens a little to look at the wolf on the same level. “I’m fine. I _am_ ,” he insists when Peter squints at him. Stiles’ heartbeat is as steady as it ever gets. He isn’t lying.

* * *

It’s easy as anything to download a Japanese keyboard to his phone. Even with shaking hands, he has a few emails sent out before he unlocks the door to his dark, empty house. His dad is on shift, and with everyone out looking for any sign of Derek he can’t expect company for the evening. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzes once with an incoming email.

* * *

The hostess only raises an eyebrow as Stiles skids through the Japanese restaurant door two minutes before closing. He musters his best sheepish smile. “Uh, pickup for Stilinski?” 

“Of course,” she says, picking up a large bag and setting it on the counter before him. “Cash or card?” Stiles pays and quickly leaves again, hoping that the sheer amount of karaage and inarizushi he bought will make up for it not being warm when he finally eats it. 

But no, he can’t think about that right now. Focus is what’s needed here. 

He drives with both hands on the wheel, counting his breaths just so panic won’t cause him to run off the road. The Jeep’s beaten up enough as it is, it probably won’t survive another head-on collision with a tree. 

He could swear the wards and mountain ash prick at him as he picks the lock to the clinic again. The quiet _snick_ of the last pin sliding into place echoes ominously, reverberating in the hollow space carved into his chest. The plastic bag in his hand grows heavier. Nevertheless, Stiles makes his slow way to the dark office, counting his breaths.

He drives the screwdriver into the padlock and it clicks open in time with his thudding heart.

 _Shock_ , an emotion screaming into Stiles’ brain like a livewire the instant his hand touches the wooden box. A moment later the shock clears and _rage_ hammers into him, the quiet thunk of a buzzing fly throwing itself mindlessly against the lid, trying to get at him. 

It takes every ounce of self-control to set the box on the floor instead of dropping it, and he has to wonder if Deaton or Argent could feel this too, or if he’s just special. Stiles gratefully lets go but the buzzing only grows louder. 

“Chill out,” he says, voice as steady as he can make it. He may be shaking, but the fly doesn’t need to know that. 

_1-2-3-4…_ he keeps counting on one hand, touching his thumb to each finger in sequence. With the other hand, he takes two styrofoam containers and opens the tops before turning the containers to face the box.

The buzzing stops. 

_Got your attention now, don’t I, you bastard_? 

“ _Kitsune-tsuki_ ,” he says, and if his accent is a little archaic, it can’t be helped. “Willingly, this time.” 

The box actually twitches from how hard the fly buzzes, and Stiles doesn’t need to touch it to get the impression of rage and betrayal from it – it spent far too long wrapped up in Stiles’ neurons for him not to get to know it back, at least a little toward the end. 

“It’s not a trick,” says the human kid to the monster, and Stiles wants to laugh, reassuring the only being he hates in this world more than Gerard Argent that he’s being sincere. Half a giggle slips out before he strangles it. “I know what it means to be _kitsune-mochi_. This _can’t_ be a trick.”

In the quiet, the fly buzzes once, almost petulant. 

Stiles scoffs. “You tricked Noshiko first, you don’t get to be pissed when she tricked you back.” His mouth pulls into a grin and there’s no one to see how strained it is at the edges when Stiles leans forward and negligently flicks the box of sushi with a finger. “Well?” he finally hisses at the silent hunk of wood, trying not to let his desperation show. 

Somewhere in the next room, something drips loudly. The invisible clock ticks down. 

Then a high, long buzz he can’t interpret, but he doesn’t have to when he’s already reaching to open the box with the _YES_ ringing in his ears. 

“ _Onegaishimasu_ ,” he remembers to spit at the last minute, and then there is pain. 

It’s not the slow invasion of dreams and backsliding sanity Stiles experienced before. It strikes like lightning, but inside him, a rapid expansion of shadow driving seeking tendrils through all his veins and up his spine, curling tight around nerves and bone alike. The brand underneath his ear burns hot. 

All quiets for a long moment. The dripping faucet is dry and the pain gradually fades.

There’s an almost physical sensation as the nogitsune wends their way through his memories until they come to the reason Stiles has been so desperate in the first place. 

Their laugh is full of razor blades, but he knows they’re amused at his petty need to save a pack member, even one that doesn’t like him very much. 

_So soon after you were rid of us, too._

Stiles wants to scream, and they can see his want and his restraint both. 

Stiles reaches for a piece of inarizushi. _Onegaishimasu_ , they sigh, in the same tone as someone settling into their favorite spot on the couch after a long day.

His mouth opens without his will behind it, tofu and rice accepted from a human hand as he feeds it to the fox. 

They are bound.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles and the nogitsune eat, and as his stomach fills Stiles realizes that the hollowed-out feeling he’s been dealing with for the past weeks is gone. 

Of course it is. The being that created that emptiness is all cozied-up inside him, filling those spaces in his brain full to bursting with comfortable darkness and a buzz like the pins-and-needles of a limb coming awake again. 

They shudder together as the fox swallows the last bite of _karaage_. 

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his lungs start to burn and he has to inhale deeply. 

_This is the part where we betray you_ , they say, and laugh when he tenses further. 

Nothing happens, and he can feel their amusement as Stiles realizes they’re trying to get a rise out of him, to see what he’ll do. Stiles deliberately makes his thoughts as blank as he can, wanting to regret this decision already but knowing he can’t.

They say nothing as he cleans up, tossing styrofoam and wood into the plastic bag before he turns to lock the chest up again. With the evidence cleaned up, he stands and makes his way to the back door. 

Stiles walks into an invisible wall. He curses, clutching his aching nose, and there’s a long moment of confusion before he remembers _why_ he chose to do this in the clinic instead of just taking the box and finding a spot in the woods. 

_Mountain ash wards_ , the fox says. Stiles can hear, can _feel_ its amusement. _To contain us if we got free? And what now that we’re bound?_

Okay, so Stiles was mostly stringing the whole consensual possession thing on hope and a prayer, and didn’t actually think he’d get this far. 

The fox plucks this knowledge up as it comes to his forethoughts and laughs. It’s a strange, discordant sound that he half-expects to be grating, but isn’t. _Luckily for us, you are kitsune-mochi_ , they say. _You can make a way through_. Under the fox’s direction, he holds out a hand, like he’s turning a knob.

They open the door.

* * *

“I can’t just keep calling you ‘the fox’, it’s weird.” 

_We have no name_ , they answer, watching through his eyes as Stiles goes through the motions of throwing the trash in the footwell and starting the Jeep. 

“Well you have to pick something or I’ll pick for you. Miguel, Mickey, Damian…” he pauses, remembering that hollow now filled in his head and heart. “Void,” Stiles says, and can feel them bristle at the reminder of the rank they once wanted to attain; an old dream.

 _Do not push your luck, Stiles_ , they hiss. 

His hands clench involuntarily around the steering wheel before he gets them under control. He’s studied _kitsune-tsuki_ , knows that in return for freedom from the box and a body to inhabit they are bound to protect him, cannot hurt him or anyone else without his explicit permission.

Still, he has the impression of silver fangs flashing in the dark, and wonders how much those limitations will be tested in the coming days. And because he’s too curious, even with the threat of retaliation he can’t help but push. 

“That’s what you wanted to be, once. Void kitsune, right?” In the following silence he can feel that slithering sensation, a brush of intangible fur as the nogitsune searches his mind for answers. 

It knows him. Stiles got to know it back. 

_Once, we may have wanted to be kūko. But no more_. As a field fox, no longer following the god O-Inari, they can never attain that rank. One day they may have to watch Noshiko attain it, though, and the very notion rankles. 

Stiles blinks, both at the thoughts bleeding through and the sudden knowledge that the nogitsune is only a century older than Mrs. Yukimura. “I’ll call you something else,” he finally says. 

_No,_ the fox interrupts. _If you must call us by any name, ‘Void’ is acceptable._

Tension Stiles held in his shoulders releases, that part of him waiting for them to lash out at him abating for now. 

He can still sense their turmoil, how they blanket his thoughts with simmering anger and a craving for violence, but underneath it runs a fever-hot longing for something – maybe the status? 

But he can feel them bristle the longer his thoughts linger on it, so he tries to focus back on the road and let Void stew in their own thoughts.

* * *

He keeps the Hale box. 

Void snarls in the back of his mind, but makes no move to push forward, to take over his hands or blank out his mind or kill his friends– he takes a shuddering breath, counts his fingers.

Void is still for a long moment, their emotions inscrutable as a dead, black cave pool. _Why did you keep it?_ they ask, more demand than question. 

Stiles keeps his mouth shut, even as he locks the box into the large, flat metal chest he’s started keeping under the bed. _Insurance_ , he snarks, not necessarily in its direction because there _is_ no direction. 

It’s in every vein and sinew, sunk into his bones. They are _kitsune-mochi_ , two parts of a willing deal blurred into a whole, and he knows there’s no going back.

If he can’t convince Scott and Deaton not to exorcise him when they get Derek back, Stiles will have to leave, because he won’t survive the separation. Not this time. 

Still, the box is a totem of the choice he’s made, if nothing else. Something to remind him not to fall prey to potential corruption. 

He’s not sure if he’s comforted when the fox doesn’t respond to the thought, but they have a job to do, starting with Derek’s loft.

* * *

 _We’ve always liked this place_ , Void says as he hauls the door open. He can see why – the loft feels steeped in misery and pain. Being here brings back the memory of Boyd dying at Derek’s own hands, and that Derek continues living here and torturing himself with it.

Of course he does – he spent months living out of the skeleton of his burnt house and using an abandoned train depot. 

Stiles resolves that the instant they get Derek back safe and sound, he’s going to convince him to move. It shouldn’t be an issue – Peter and Derek both obviously have money stashed somewhere, otherwise Derek wouldn’t own this building or Peter his apartment on the other end of town.

 _You are distracting_ , Void growls, the whirl of Stiles’ thoughts disturbing them from further basking in the misery. 

He rolls up his sleeves, cheerfully ignoring them. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

Stiles doesn’t want to think about how long he spends on his hands and knees in that loft touching the concrete. 

He locks in place when they find the right spot, Void sorting through myriad instances of _painfearlosschaosdesperation_. They feed on it and only push along whenever Stiles urges them on.

At last, flashes of gunfire, Derek’s roar and clearing smoke. In the forefront of his thoughts, Void deposits a blue face surrounded by blond hair, which slowly shifts into a familiar, hated visage.

 _Kate_ , Stiles thinks, sinking fully onto the floor in his shock. _Kate’s back-_ how _is she back and what the fuck is up with her face?!_

 _The hunter the wolf killed?_ Void conjures an image in Stiles’ mind’s eye of Peter, his claws still wet with Kate’s blood. _Wolves can turn others if the claws gouge deep enough._

Another accidental turning. Fuck, this will be like Jackson all over again, but louder and worse. 

“Do you know what she is?” he asks aloud, pulling his legs up to rest his forehead against his knees.

 _She is not a kanima_ , is all Void says, even when Stiles prods them.

“So you don’t know what she is either, great.” 

They snarl at him again, but he’s already looking around for clues. He can’t explain Kate, but he can explain the bullet casing he makes Void help him find. One rolled into a pillar where a chunk of brick was missing at the floor level and never replaced. The casing remained undiscovered by the cleaning crew and subsequent searches by their frantic pack.

“Guess this is as good as it gets,” he murmurs, pocketing it.

* * *

Stiles can feel his palms sweating as time ticks closer to the pack arriving at his house. His dad has already stopped trying to talk to him, put off for now by the assurance he’ll tell him everything at the pack meeting. Stiles is taking advantage of his ability to mislead without any walking lie-detectors in the room, and he should feel bad but mostly he just tries not to think about it. 

Void stirs, responding to _something_ in the last thought, and Stiles tries not to think about that either.

 _None of these children will be able to sense us_ , Void says, out of the blue. And he knows that, because otherwise everyone would have been able to catch on that much sooner and Allison would never have-

He takes a deep, shaky breath in and out, but it doesn’t help the way his heart pounds when his friends will be here any moment-

 _Stiles,_ Void hisses, softly by his ear, _if you cannot be still we will make you_. And he thinks again how he’d tried to be reassured by the emails, the former Shinto priest who assured him that _kitsune-mochi_ cannot be harmed by their partner and he has to believe it; can’t afford not to-

 _Calm_ , they say, and sensation washes from the back of his head into his chest where the nogitsune has wrapped themself twice around his heart. His heartbeat slows and steadies.

* * *

“Calaveras,” Peter growls after one look at the sugar skull engraving. “They must be the ones who have him.”  
Stiles’ eyebrows fly up. “I thought they were one of the families who follow the code?” 

“They are.” Peter crosses his arms, and Stiles realizes he’s mirroring Dad’s defensive posture, both of them still uneasy in each other’s presence. 

There’d been a lot of shouting when John realized Peter was _that_ Peter Hale, with all that name entailed. It took Lydia and Stiles – but mostly Lydia – to convince his dad they had more important things to worry about than Peter’s serial killer tendencies. 

“They’re also extremely… to the letter.” Peter continues. “Derek bit three teens and now two of them are dead, the other fucked off to Europe with an Argent.”  
“That’s really all it would take for them to kidnap him?” Scott asks, and Stiles valiantly doesn’t roll his eyes, because he can already see the unhappy expression clouding his Dad’s face. With the personnel shortage at the station, there’s no way his dad can try to take over as a responsible adult in the event of them needing to stage a rescue.

They’re all wrong, and Stiles knows it but can’t explain how he knows. The only reason he doesn’t give himself away is Void still pressing his heart into calm. 

He has to remind himself how much he hates them when his hands are suddenly rock-steady. 

Void laughs, and it’s an ugly sound.

Stiles claps his hands, pulling attention back to himself. “So, we need to go to Mexico, what’s the plan?”  
“Stiles-” his dad starts. 

“The new semester starts tomorrow. If we go now you’ll miss lacrosse tryouts,” Lydia interjects nonchalantly. Scott closes his eyes for a long moment before shaking his head. 

“Derek’s in danger and that’s more important. If Coach says we can’t play this year-” he cuts off, shrugging. 

_That it took him even that long to decide between a petty game and his pack member reflects very well on him_ , Void sneers. _Was it worth selling yourself to us for this pack of yours?_

Stiles ruthlessly crushes self-doubt before it has time to take root. _How about you stop sowing discord for one minute and focus on how we’re going to get the Calaveras to tell us where Kate’s keeping Derek._

“Ok, so we’re kicked out of the popular kid club for a semester until Coach cools down, not a big deal,” Stiles says, and if Scott looks more shocked than he should, it’s probably because Void smoothed that lie out of his heartbeat, too.

* * *

Given time, the plan could be a masterpiece of manipulation, getting the hunters to tear into themselves while the pack stands back to watch. 

Fortunately for Stiles’ peace of mind, they don’t have that kind of time. 

Malia is deemed the most stealthy, and together with Kira she’s tasked with sneaking past physical security as soon as the power blows. Shouts of alarm go up, doubling when the backup generator doesn’t come on immediately and the party below them stays pitch black: the party attendees begin to panic. 

That’ll give security something to worry about. 

He can feel the stretch of Void’s grin in the back of his mind as Kira radios in that the manual release for the fire suppression system has been permanently disabled. A text pops up on Stiles’ phone, alerting him that calls in the area are being rerouted, cell signals jammed for the next fifteen minutes. 

_Make a door_ , Void says, and Stiles signals Scott to proceed, pulling a pistol out of its holster at the small of his back. The fights are short but brutal, only taking as long as they do because Scott still has a moratorium on killing. Stiles just keeps pointing to the next likely direction of the matron’s office. It’s not particularly hard to find. 

“Where is Derek?” is the first thing Scott asks as he smashes through the door and is met with a face full of guns. Lydia tenses behind Stiles, but doesn’t scream, and Stiles loosens his grip on his own gun only slightly. 

They enter the room and Stiles sees Araya Calavera in all her glory. 

_Look how clean she thinks her hands are,_ Void whispers immediately, but the way they do so makes him think the words are directed outwards rather than in. Out to the men surrounding them. Stiles can feel as Void begins prodding their hindbrains, planting the seeds of doubt. _How guiltless her soul, do you not feel you could do better?_ Another angle: _Your greed pulls you in sometimes- think of the gold bars you’ve seen in her safe. Does your friend remember the combination?-_ they continue, and Stiles sets his attention fully on the woman herself.

“Alpha McCall,” the head of the Calaveras says, “you’re cleverer than I thought you were, to follow such sparse clues. But not clever enough to refrain from barging in so rudely.” Her expression twists in derision and Stiles knows she’s about to order at least one of them shot – whether they survive it or not depending entirely on her goals. 

Scott roars, and the men under Void’s spell hesitate to pull the trigger just long enough for two forms to crash through the windows behind the desk, tearing through steel. Cora is swift to knock one man to the ground before throwing herself at another, while Peter dashes forward. 

The beta hooks his claws around her throat the same moment Araya’s gun touches Scott’s forehead. 

_Corrode_ , Stiles thinks hard at her shining pistol, his will driving one of the two spells Void’s been able to teach him. The room watches with rapt attention as it rapidly rusts in her hand and crumbles to dust. Peter’s already at her neck, his claws digging in further and causing her to go rigid. He watches her calculate the chance of Peter’s claws turning her versus outright killing her, and Stiles shakes his head when apparently only the threat of turning is enough to make this woman the least bit compliant.

Stiles breaks the shocked silence before anyone can begin to process what just happened. “Now that we’re in a position to negotiate-” 

He breaks off to fire a shot an inch from where her hand reached for the knife on her desk, leaving behind a faintly smoking hole in the wood. Peter wrenches her backwards and up, away from any more potential weapons. Void’s control is absolute in that moment of weakness, so when Stiles says, “Put your guns down,” the guards obey, despite Araya’s sharp negation of the order. 

“Magic,” she hisses, her eyes fixed on Stiles. He can only hope that’s all she sees in him: some spellcaster making her loyal family bend to the will of a teenage boy. Void starts laughing as she registers their apparent lack of resistance, one side of her mouth ticking up in displeasure. 

Stiles wonders how many of them will survive the month. 

“We showed mercy and didn’t kill any of your men,” Scott says, and Stiles wonders if the consolation even registers through her anger. 

It takes a moment, but when the disbelief shows on her face Stiles snorts and throws himself into a chair. He’s the only relaxed person in the room, even if Lydia’s doing a good job of feigning it at his back.

“It’s true, Scottie’s a softy. I’m not, though.” He doesn’t put any extra weight to the words, but watches the threat land squarely – with Peter too, based on the raised eyebrows and the flash of ice blue in his eyes. “Give us Derek and no one needs to get hurt.”  
Her gaze is flinty as she glares him down. “We hunt those who hunt us. This ambush marks the start to a war-”

“Only if unprovoked.” And there’s Lydia, her voice steady. She places the bullet casing on their desk. 

“That is no proof-” 

“Your talk of war is a distraction,” Stiles says, as Void starts whispering in the back of his brain. “I mean, no doubt you’ll follow through with the threats, but you’re leading us away from the point for a reason.” He cocks his head. “Do you know where Derek is?” 

She says nothing, expression blank. 

“Hey guys,” Stiles starts, his tone of realization easy enough to fake and without even a lie for Void to smooth out. “I think they might _not_ have Derek.” 

The hunter’s face twitches, and before anyone can do more than gasp Lydia’s already making another logical leap. 

“But you know who does, don’t you?” she asks, sharp as a knife. 

Araya finally fixes her attention on Lydia. “I have heard about you, banshee-” but at Lydia’s frown Peter tightens his grip again, and the woman starts bleeding as the henchmen take in sharp breaths.

“Don’t change the subject. Names, please. And any other information you have,” she states, expecting to be obeyed, and it’s a long battle of wills as the hunter clearly weighs her options. 

“Kate Argent,” she finally spits, grinning coldly at their reactions – including Peter’s snarl of rage. Stiles tenses, but the werewolf doesn’t harm the woman further. 

They wring out the approximate location of the tomb, but she refuses to speak further on how Kate could have possibly survived. 

Scott, always too soft, chooses to let it go. 

Stiles pulls out his phone to send a text.

The power starts up, all the overhead lights flickering on. The entire room cringes at the brightness. Something clicks once, twice, and hisses.

Smoke billows from two places at once, and before the Calaveras can do more than shout, the power dies again. Night vision ruined and surrounded by thick but odorless smog, the humans flail and pandemonium ensues when someone opens fire. 

By the time the smoke clears, the Hale pack has vacated the premises. 

Stiles puts his gun back in its holster and he dashes to the Jeep, followed by Scott and Peter. He starts it up and seconds later Stiles guns the engine, following Lydia’s tail lights. 

Void keeps his hands from shaking.

* * *

 _Just leave the hunk of scrap metal,_ they growl. They can feel the circling presences in the hills surrounding, and there is little they hate more than feeling like prey.

 _Over my dead body_ , Stiles thinks at them. If they care to look they’ll know all the reasons he can’t just abandon the Jeep here, no matter what good sense says.

 _Our body now_ , Void hisses, and Stiles doesn’t argue the point.

* * *

Derek is a kid – almost a baby compared to how Stiles is used to seeing him, with inches less height and a lack of bulk and scruff and snarling to go around. This Derek, the Derek before Kate Argent, is soft and almost complacent when compared to his older self. He also has no memory of his family’s deaths, or the time that’s passed. 

It’s made obvious when Peter gets out of the Jeep and runs up to him, snarling, “What did that bitch do to you?” 

Derek’s only reaction, dazed and groggy as he is, is a confused, “Peter?” Then a muttered, “Why are you old?” 

Malia laughs. “You’re right, he is old!” She only tapers off when she notices no one else is laughing, and Stiles is too busy staring at baby Derek to feel bad about it. 

_We recognize this stench now,_ Void snarls. _The wolf reeks of magic and death._

Derek chooses that moment to pass out, Peter catching him and bundling him back into the Jeep before anyone can protest. 

“Let’s go,” he says to Lydia, and she deigns to herd Kira and Malia to her own car. 

Void starts complaining about the smell of Berserker as he gets into the Jeep, and Stiles begins to realize the scope of how fucked they are unless he can come up with a plan and another excuse for how he knows something he shouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cultural notes:  
>  _kūko_ \- void kitsune - one of the highest ranks of good kitsune; a kitsune that reaches three-thousand years old and ascends to a purely spiritual being, with magic on par with gods.
> 
> comments are love // you can follow or prompt me [on tumblr](https://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> cultural notes:  
>  _kitsune-tsuki_ \- possession by a fox spirit  
>  _kitsune-mochi_ \- a person or family willingly possessed by a kitsune in order to bring fortune to their family  
>  _karaage_ & _inarizushi_ \- both traditional foods (fried chicken and a type of fried tofu on sushi rice) associated with kitsune and the god of foxes and rice, O-Inari  
> “ _onegaishimasu_ ” - a phrase used by two players before starting their game of Go; a phrase used when someone has agreed to do something for the person saying the words, with the implication to “please do me this favor”
> 
> comments are love. you can send more prompts [on my tumblr](https://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/).


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